


Cupid

by was_adamant



Series: Second Verse [3]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, M/M, Mindfuck, Psychological Horror, Science Fiction, god dang i love sci-fi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 21:27:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3911290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/was_adamant/pseuds/was_adamant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Hart must have once been young and inexperienced. According to the file you pilfered from the dark recesses of the Archives, he was also trifeca alumni - Ludgrove, Eton, Cambridge. Stellar records. </p><p>He wasn't ever much like you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cupid

Harry Hart must have once been young and inexperienced. According to the file you pilfered from the dark recesses of the Archives, he was also trifeca alumni - Ludgrove, Eton, Cambridge. Stellar records.

He wasn't ever much like you.

You try imagining it sometimes as a thought exercise but it doesn't compute. Him, inexperienced, awkward, hands covered in dirt? He could never have been that _weak_. You hated him a little for it all; a shard of resentment of the wealth that he had, a small resistance to his charm. You aren't stupid, you never felt deeply for any of the rich, handsome Johns you've had. But Hart was never a John. So, you didn't have any defences against him.

When you arrive back at the flat you go check the bathroom first.  
(five years and it still isn't quite clicking, the fact that you _own_ it, a fucking mutt like you)

It was Merlin who first gave it to you, shiny key hung on the standard Kingsmen key fob. Roxy second, who unceremoniously dumped a bunch of your shite in the hallway and declared herself done for the day. 

You'd strutted around _oohing_ and _aahhing_ at the whole place, useless tasteful grand pianos and fur rugs, while inside something in you was clutching at walls and hysterically giggling. Lady Roxanne, bless her, had settled at home on your new couch with a bottle of wine and made you a list of _ridiculously_ expensive weapons to buy while Merlin tried vainly to explain the security features installed. It was a good day in the hazy aftermath of half the Kingsmen having died in the exploding head malefaction - Old King Arthur was a prolific bugger, it seems.

It almost made you forget your knight Galahad was dead. (The True One. The _real_ one.)

You were his favourite. (is the favourite? Are, am?)  
You could tell see, years and years of self preservation developed in overworked classrooms having ensured this. When you wanted to you were a silver tongued hellion; the teachers chosen lost boy. Instinct told you he favoured you more than any other candidate he's ever picked and it thrilled something in you. Drugged up on that feeling, you became _alive_.

So your steps are light and sure on the hardwood, no sign of hesitation that might have crawled, slithered, under your skin. There is no use for it in this moment, no conceivable application; it is _Harry_. He has never done you wrong.

He has never done you wrong.

 

 

The bathroom is empty when you open its door. (When did you close it, this morning?)

Are you disappointed? Do you feel let down? Again, by your beloved protectors.

Who have you really loved in your life? Your sister; moments after she came home, crying scared already. Your mum most times; Dean a cause for outliers, poison slowly seeping in till most of your memories are contaminated with the fucker. Roxy maybe, Merlin too, closest friends you've ever had since that teenaged ‘incident’ with your boy; after all that the neighbourhood kids avoided you for a very long time. You were so _grateful_ , when they stopped. (One day, when you're important enough, when you’re proven without a doubt, you will go back and _kill Dean._ No one will stop you.)

You can feel it coming on like slow fever, loving new people.  
And then there's Hart. Christ fucking saviour that he was, the tosser.

But no, Hart you loved simply because you _wanted_ , you craved him until it was a sickness in you. More than some fancy scholarship, more than your mum's happiness, your dead father's approval. You lied to her and said it was an apprenticeship, something a mate hooked you up with. You didn't even give her the option of losing you, this time.

You don't regret it. Standing in the coolness of the bathroom, lights off and blood pounding rhythms in your head you still do not regret _anything_.

As a matter of fact and upon much reflection, you are fucking ecstatic, okay? No gentle understanding therapists for you, thanks. _You are pleased as fucking punch_ , you are, under all this fucked up weirdness. So yeah, maybe you ain't getting what you deserve, boo bloody hoo, but you are getting what you _want_.  
(Or… or is it the other way around?)

You’re wearing the new suit aren’t you? And the shoes that match, it sends a tremor down your spine every time you move, expensive fabrics a tangible comfort from him. 

You have been given such gifts.  _Gifts_. The tie from the hotel. The clothes from last night; real, solid things you've been looking for, chasing his image in the mirror. He must have noticed. And provided for, too. 

You never did have to ask the wanker for anything.

(Well, except for when you failed the test, but you knew like a petulant child knows, you would have been forgiven, there was always going to be a second chance —).

 

 

There is —   
a sudden displacement in the air, _eyes on the back of your head_ feeling telling you someone else has just arrived. You haven't heard a thing. 

Could be Hart, could be some other fucker trying to kill you for whatever reason you've given them over the past few years. (No one from the minor league of your schooldays, you're playing with big boys now)

Pause. 

Assess. 

Close proximity: ceramic knife on the shelf by the bathroom door, two handguns in laundry hamper. A garrote wire under the rug - bedroom. You face 90° clockwise from door, no time to activate your many failsafes, they got in so easy - proficient.

Intake breath; reach and turn 180° face other doorway, the glint of your knife flipping dream-like to hand; _it all feels so slow;_ bastard’s moved close sensing loss of surprise; he is upon you, blood roars in your ears, _distracing, distracting_ , you trade vicious blows while struggling to track him; like a sudden fear of a missed step but you have _you are trained savageness, so they can just come at you, bruv._  

You win or you die, and you will win. Voice in your head, smooth male consonants saying: duck left, yes, now aim right, aim for underarm, good Eggsy, finish the task, yes, _fine work boy_. You don't waste time by demanding anything, just press his trachea with the knife.

It's easy now. Slide A into Slot B.

 

 

You are a bloody train wreck of a person but you aren't a fucking _amateur_. Bloody hell.

It isn't him. ( _Slot B_ is just a man who is human, living, bleeding —)

Instead, it looks like some kinda hired suit: expensive, well trained, entirely expendable. The clothes look business casual enough to allow him entry into the building without raising questions, weapons hidden expertly on his person. His face is unremarkable and, to you, blank with fear - you know he’s been told nothing and can therefore tell you nothing. The wound you have made bleeds down your arm.

You rip out the knife.

What to do now, with a dead body? Pat it (him) down, turn it around, do a fucking jig, you know this song and dance well.  
Recovered: a clip of money, photographs of you including one entering the bank, the gym, the deli down the street - _such close dedication, why are you so important?_ Several poison tipped knives (no guns, he was instructed to keep this as quiet as possible? Again, _why?_ ). A gentle clink of metal, in a black ribboned box.

You pause to think, before opening anyway.

It turns out to be antique cufflinks with intricate K’s. A business card. New gifts it seems, for being a good boy and getting an A star. 

You’re bloody fucking confused as _fuck_ but you are under no illusions here. You know now this was a test from your amorous  _wanker_. (Who did you just kill? A lackey? A loose end?) Are you supposed to find these gifts romantic? Is this... is he romancing you? Would he always have been this passionately vehement with his attentions?

You dump the body in the bath, pour in standard issue lye, turn on the industrial grade ventilation, _thank you Merlin_ , carefully lock the bathroom door. Mop the floorboards. Sit down, fuck, breathe a little. Watch JB continue to sleep in his £500 bed made from gold or some shite. Turn the card around in your hands. You don’t know the name on it, but you know the company. You pull your laptop over and open its matte grey cover. You take another second to breathe, say fuck quietly, and open a chat window.

 

 **JBlovesme:** wat can u tell me bout Duplare lance?

 **Lancelot:** _Is typing…_

 **Lancelot:** Jesus, why the hell do you still have that handle, it’s atrocious

 **Lancelot:** And, why? Did Merlin mention something?

 **Lancelot:** I wanted to find out more first

 **Lancelot:** Christ, I’m not actually sure yet

**Merlin has entered the conversation.**

**Merlin:** I assure you, Lancelot, I mentioned nothing to Galahad.

 **Merlin:** Though I am curious now to know why you are asking, Galahad?

 

Your hands are useless to you, in this moment of indecision. What to say? Hart has not been gentle to you. His behaviour is erratic, violent like the last moments of his life. To tell people who care for you is to invite their protection; you feel haunted. You know you should get help.

 

 **JBlovesme:** nothin, just bored i guess

 **JBlovesme:** wanted to no how ur doin

 **JBlovesme:** wait, find out what lance??

 **Lancelot:** Like I said, I need to do a bit more work first 

 **Lancelot:** I’m sorry, Eggsy

 **JBlovesme:** eh, we all got our secrets, its k rox

 **JBlovesme:** guess ill just go back to being bored yea?

 **Merlin:** Are you alright, Galahad?

 **JBlovesme:**  nah, dont worry bout it, ill just sleep it off

**JBlovesme has left the conversation.**

 

A quick Google search tells you Duplare is a relatively new project, specialising in theoretical computational neuroscience. Unofficially, according to the stuff you gathered from Roxy in bits and pieces over the last few months, they’ve already come close to perfecting it, hand in hand with a robotics division funded by another rich white guy you don’t care about. It’s meant to revolutionise the work industry. Help patch up the missing bits of society even, after the whole Valentines fuck fest. You feel nervous about this information, you’re starting to get a feeling as to why Hart left you the card to _Janice Talos Ph.D, Head of Cognitive Science_ but your gut is telling you, the answer is probably gonna be fucked up like _fucking shite._

You consider not being a shithead for a moment before you hack your way into Roxy’s report files and start reading up. 

(Merlin, exasperated with your constant whining when you’re laid up after missions has started teaching you some stuff you take like duck to water, you’re always gonna be a bit crook, nuff said.)

You should sleep. You should, probably, shove all of this away from you, scream for a awhile, curl up in a fetal position around JB and ask for some bloody help from your mates. You could pretend this all isn’t happening to you. _You could do a fucking runner_. You grab your gun and several clips and put food in JB’s bowl instead.

 

 

The night has turned out crisp and chilly, it feels later than it is. The dissonance throws you a bit, you feel tired like 4am insomnia. Instead there are night commuters, kids mucking about on the streets after dinner, mums with prams. You zip up your old hoodie and finish tying up your Nike trainers in the lobby of the building; you left the flat in a hurry. You’ve left your Kingsman glasses.

You are gonna go try track down a lab. 

This is a bloody fucking stupid decision, _you know_. You're probably gonna fucking die.

You can see it now: Here lies Eggsy stupid shithead Unwin (Roxy's words, probably). You died because you had to go, alone, to a sketchy-as-fuck restricted facility to try figure out what the hell is up with your old mentor turning up to fuck you in your fancy room that _he left you, in his fucking will._

Ok, alright think. Creepy undead Harry plus known neuro-mapping technology thanks to Valentine’s crazy plans of _global culling to save the world (?!)_ means… shite, he was off his nut? Fuck if you know. This is all too fucking much. If one mad rich bloke is capable of fucking up the world so badly that it's still technically in recovery five years later then it makes sense that all his _research_ into the structure and neural system of the human brain for the development of the frequency chip could have been duplicated or maybe even recovered enough for some new, mad rich bloke to use for his _own weird, messed up purposes_.

Which, yeah, looks to be fucking _human cyborgs???_

It needles you, that fact. Fives years later and things that Valentine has done is still fucking with you. Of course he must’ve had investors, interested parties, other mad scientists working in tandem, important enough that he wouldn’t risk the implant; they’ve just never surfaced until now. The more you think about it, the more it kinda makes some kinda fucked up sense? Right? The world’s infrastructures after such a large population reduction would require some sort of work force, yeah? No guarantees of even skill distributions and the like. So… robots.

You’re brain is still stuck, maybe, on the result somehow being the return of your Galahad, like some twisted fairy tale.

 

 

You set off at a casual walk for a few blocks to throw off Merlin’s cameras and wave down a cab, you have the driver take you part of the way, then another cab through another part. You jog briskly the rest of the way, stretching out and psyching yourself up for what your about to do.

Harry is clearly going terminator or some shite. The question now is; _how much_ are you gonna regret siding with a mentally unhinged clone-bot?

You sigh and smash out a nearby BMW window. You crouch down on the balls of your feet and wait for whoever owns it to come out to check, one of Harry’s cufflinks in hand, mystery injection tip facing out. 

_Roxy is probs gonna kill you, fuckity bloody fuck._

**Author's Note:**

> SO ITS BEEN A WHILE.  
> I'm very sorry, please know that I see all your kudos and comments! I just a bit of a shit at keeping to schedule, aha.


End file.
